


Reelas: Dream

by orphan_account



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Ancestors, Gen, One-AMbound, Reelas gets told
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-25
Updated: 2013-03-25
Packaged: 2017-12-06 11:17:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,473
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/735060
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Reelas meets his ancestor.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Reelas: Dream

You don't actually recognise the setting.

You feel like you ought to. It's vaguely familiar, but you just can't put your finger on it. You do, but you don't. On one hand, you recognise it because it's something that anyone with a brain and common sense can recognise: A standard, small-time fleet ship, though it's admittedly a very old model. You can tell from the fact that the walls aren't even covered or painted; they're plain metal, plastered with adds from old-timey newsfeeds. The floors are covered in a barren sort of carpet, cheap as hell and worn to the threads. A custom job, you'd bet. But yes, you recognise the layout. You've never been in one of these before, but you've seen it in movies. You feel similarly about the troll in front of you. Again, he's someone you've never met, but you recognise him.

Because he looks just like you.

He's your spitting image, from his blank silver eyes to the tips of his horns; just sharper. Disheveled. Bigger. You look impish at your most threatening. He looks rogueish and dangerous. He looks like he could cut you in half with a bat of his eye and spit on your corpse. You shouldn't be scared; you've taken down bigger. But that was different. Those guys were small time thugs. This guy is essentially a much better you. You immediately feel very inadequet. 

"So, this half-pint little spitfuck is /my/ descendent?" is the first thing he says to you. You don't even manage a retort. Usually you can talk in your dreams, but your mouth has gone dry. Your mind is racing. At first, you don't know what to think, because on one hand he's your ancestor, your predecessor, the guy you're supposed to follow up on. Your predetermined role-model. But then again, on the other hand, he's also the troll who ruined your life. You are consumed with a variety of emotions. First confusion. Then anxiety. Then, pure anger.

You take the last one and roll with it. You feel the anger building like a boiling pit in your stomach, rising heat in your face and giving rise to what you know is going to be a good yell. You ball your fists, clench your teeth, and give him your nastiest glare, and you ask him the first thing that comes to mind.

"Where the FUCK do you get off?" you say, and he laughs at you, because as much as you hate it, you really are just like him. Your accents mimic one another, illogically. Vaguely eastern, with your soft F's and his breathy S's. You don't care as much as you should. He asks what your problem is, and you bark back at him without even a moment to think.

"You RUINED my LIFE, you... you..."

He raises an eyebrow at you.

"You--"

"--Disgusting nasty trash, yeah, I got that," he finishes for you, taking the words right out of your mouth. You stare at him in disbelief, your confident fading out of you like you'd been punched in the gut.

"You gonna sit there gaping at me all day, or were you finished with your rant?"

He smirks at you, leaning back in his chair. He's all casual. You're literally sparking with anger and humiliation, and he is [i]smirking at you[/i]. You don't know what to think.

"You give me too much credit, kid. From what I've seen, you do a fine job of screwing your own life up," he continues, producing some kind of oddly coloured beverage out of seemingly nowhere. You fucking hate dreams sometimes. You glare at him and take a seat.

"Really done a bang-up job, if I do say so myself. No one wrecks it like Reelas. That's your name, ain't it, kid?"

You don't answer, but he knows. He can tell from the indignated yellow flush forming in your ears.

"First you got caught, tricked into a shitty confession, and shipped off to some blueblood. Lovely start, ain't it? How naive /are/ you, anyway? Even I was smarter than that at that age," he says. You choose not to reply. You aren't sure if it's habit, or if you honestly have nothing to say.  
"I don't suppose you would bother to think up a story of your own, anyway. But more on that later," he continues, stirring his drink. "And to think, it's only downhill from here,"

You snort.

"Couldn't make it there, so the guy shipped you off. That had to sting. But oh, isn't that serendipity? You got picked up by Eth's brat. That's downright beautiful. Too bad you blew it,"

You give him this slack-lawed look of confusion, and start to protest, but he cuts you off.

"Shut-up. I watched it. I know how it goes. You were sick puppy from day one, weren't you? My fault, probably. Chip off the ol' block and all,"

"Fuck you!"

"I think the phrase you used was 'suck it', or something similar. Sass in the face of danger; I'll admit it, kudos, I'm proud. Not great for last words, though. You haven't said a word since. Just that cute hand-flailing trick of yours. Can't believe you put up with that. Letting yourself be dragged out, dressed up and treated like a housepet,"

He regards you with a look of contempt, ice-cold. You think he might be geniunely disappointed in you. You admit, you feel a little ashamed for it.

"That one insult really was your crowning moment, because you haven't stood up for yourself since, have you?"

You look him in the eye, and you shake your head, but you can't give an example.

"You wouldn't tell her no to anything she asked. When that guy planned to buy you, you whined for weeks, but never once did you go to her and tell her to her face that you wanted to stay. That was fake, but when the real thing came along? You still did nothing. You put up with it, left, and then what? You came crawling back, like the domesticated thing you are,"

You wince.

"Oh, and when you missed your chance? When she came home with her shiny new matesprit, what did you do?"

He pauses for effect, then moves on when he notes that you have no excuse for yourself.

"Right. You did nothing. You passive-aggressively antagonised the girl, instead of cutting your losses, or growing a set of globes and speaking up. Do you know why this is?"  
He puts his drink down, without having even taken a sip of it. He seems to have lost interest playing with the ice. Instead, he stares you down, eyes narrowing as you instinctively bring your knees to your chest.

"Because you're passive. There isn't a drop of responsibility in your body,"

He raises his voice a bit.

"There isn't a single instance throughout your life that you've ever taken responsibility for anything, much less yourself. All you do is shift the blame. When you couldn't speak up, it was because you weren't supposed to know about the sale in the first place, or because she was busy, or because she had a matesprit. You blame your circumstances on me-- hell, you complain up and down about it, when you know damn well that you wouldn't have it any other way. You had it better. Your friend let you go, and what did you do? You went right back to square one. Because it's easy and familiar. Because god forbid you take responsibility for yourself. You'd rather be someone elses problem. No freedom, no responsibilty,"

You stay silent, incapable of coming up with a reply, mostly because you know he isn't wrong. He's dead on. The knees of your pants stick damp against your cheeks, and you realise, oh great, you're crying. Like a bitch. Yeah, that's dignified. That totally doesn't prove his point.

"I didn't come here to yell at you, so let's get down to business,"

You perk up, confused.

"You are going to do what I say, got it?"

Your perplexed look does not fade.

"That being, when you wake up, you are going to speak your goddamn mind. You are going to give your opinion. You are going to take some goddamn initiative, got it?"

You stare at him as he draws a pistol from the holster on his hip, cocking it and pressing the tip against your forehead. It's ice cold, and despite the fact that you know it can't really hurt you, you still feel sinking anxiety in your chest.

"Good. And for the love of god, just fucking tell her already, you fuckin' wiggler," he says, and   
shoots you point-blank in the head.

You wake with a start, and you think.

Well.

How bad of an idea could it be?


End file.
